


bold words for someone in stabbing range

by furiously



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiously/pseuds/furiously
Summary: “Robin of Locksley, noble crusader. What's the matter?” he taunts. “Can't bear the idea that they might see you for who you really are?"Gisborne gets what he wished for, for once.
Relationships: Guy of Gisborne/Robin of Locksley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	bold words for someone in stabbing range

There is very little to set this time apart from all the other times they’ve played this little game. 

The air is sharp with November chill, the ground treacherous with rotting leaves, and Locksley is laughing as he runs. Even as his feet are dancing frantically over roots and leaves, always seemingly on the verge of catching, Locksley is laughing at him.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Guy follows. 

His lungs are burning, chest heaving with exertion, and his clothes are stiflingly hot. The ground slopes, forming a bowl, and Hood’s body, followed by his triumphant face, vanishes over the edge. Guy half-runs, half-slides down the steep incline, but he’s already lost sight of Hood, who seems to have sunk into the ground, the browns and greens of his clothing swallowed up by the forest. He turns, frantically, his own breath loud in his ears--

And then something beneath his right heel gives way. The branches of the trees spin wildly in his vision for a split second as his sword goes flying. He has just enough time for one exasperated thought (oh, for _pity's sake_ \--) and then all the air is knocked out of his lungs, a splash of pain blooming at the back of his head. Groaning, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make the insides of his lids stop sparking so he can get to his feet.

_Shhhunk._

Guy's eyes snap open, fixing on Locksley's boots and making their bleary way up just as another arrow is loosed from the bow. Shutting his eyes instinctively, he waits for the searing pain of impact, but it never arrives. There's only a tightening, as if-- his eyes open again to fasten on the arrow pinning his right sleeve. His left is the same. 

Instinctively, he yanks upward, first with his sword arm, then with his left. Nothing. 

He digs his heels into the soil and bucks, twists to free himself, but fired this closely, the arrows are driven deep into hard packed soil. Try as he might, he cannot dislodge them, and the leather will not tear. 

When Locksley's quiet laughter reaches his ears, a roar of frustration rips from his chest. 

There is very little that is different today, except that today, he’s alone. The half-pay halfwits of the Sheriff’s army have long since fallen behind. They are too far into the forest for anyone to hear.

"What do you want?" he grits out, chest heaving, his voice barely more than a rasp in his sore throat. "Are you _still_ not going to kill me?"

There's no need to feign the contempt in those words. This is a pitiful display, a showoff, a piss-poor substitute for a fair fight. There's no honour to be had from engaging in it, whether he wins or loses. It's nothing more than an insult.

"You're a coward," he sneers, when no answer is forthcoming. "You're so consumed with your reputation, your standing. This role you play amongst them -- their _shining white knight_.”

He twists his head and spits on the ground, saliva mingled with blood. His lip is bleeding freely from its meeting with Hood’s knuckles not an hour ago. He tilts his head, looks up at Hood through the fall of his hair. 

“Robin of Locksley, noble crusader. What's the matter?” he taunts. “Can't bear the idea that they might see you for who you really are?"

Locksley's knuckles are growing white on his bow. 

"That's not true. I'm changed." 

"Maybe.” Guy inclines his head a fraction, his smile sardonic enough to cut flesh. “Maybe you'll be able to hold onto your precious ideals forever. Maybe you can really fool them all. And maybe not. But it doesn't matter. Because I know.”

It hurts to smile, but he does it anyway, sudden and irrepressible. 

“I know you, like none of them ever can." 

Locksley's eyes are wide and wild beneath his brow, his body quivering with tension, frozen in place as though he does not know whether to step forward or back away. Guy presses his advantage.

"Do you think your precious Marian would've wanted you, if she'd known that you're no better than I am?"

As Locksley galvanizes into motion, the bow goes flying, bouncing off a tree with a slight clatter that Guy only barely registers through the pounding in his ears. Locksley’s hand clamps around his throat, just below the jaw, long fingers digging into the hollows below his ears and pressing on the arteries. Hood’s eyes are crazed and only a few inches from his own, he’s snarling, his breath coming ragged and torn. Guy can’t breathe at all. He can feel himself going red in the face, the pressure building in his head, behind his eyes. Locksley is talking, but the words are barely making it through the dull roar that fills his head. 

“-- don’t you _dare_ \-- swear to God I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the crows, Gisborne--” 

The world begins to darken. Flecks of black creep in from the edges and multiply, expanding to fill his vision as his heels scrabble weakly at the ground.

Locksley tears his hands away and falls back, panting. Immediately, Guy twists sideways, gasping for breath, desperately dragging air into his lungs with hoarse, half-choked grunts. That was close. If there had been a blade in Locksley’s hand... he suspects he would be dead now. 

He can imagine _that_ quite clearly: Locksley’s bow-calloused hands shaking with anger, the cold metal pressing into his throat until it began to hurt, until he could feel warm blood running down his neck and into his hair. And then, maybe Locksley would finally, _finally_ do something about it.

Sprawled out like this, there’s no way Hood won’t be able to tell that he’s hard. It’s only a matter of time before those vaunted eyes of his are drawn to Guy’s crotch -- and yes, there it is, the fractional widening, the way his face goes slack with surprise for a moment, heavy brows lifting. 

Guy feels no shame, only the same savage honesty he feels whenever he’s alone with Hood. Hood, who is just like him. The only man he’s ever failed to kill. The only man he thinks he might regret killing, when he eventually succeeds. 

Next to his harmless band of misfits, with their bows and their clubs and their little knives, it’s a miracle the good sheep of Nottingham don’t recognise Hood for a murderer wherever he goes. He’s accurate, economical, quick, ruthless. Well trained, and more importantly, well practised. Guy has been watching him since Acre, since before he knew him by any more than his profile outlined against the sun, and never has his conviction wavered: they are the same. Hood is just as skilled at killing as he is. If he is truthful with himself, Hood is better. Guy is alive today because of Hood’s selfish bloody charade of respectability, and he is tired of it.

He shifts his hips on the cold forest floor, his knees fallen all akimbo, and smiles when he sees Hood move, eyes drawn to his crotch as Hood stalks towards him, and realises that in this, as in all things, they are matched.

Locksley goes to his knees above him, fists his hand in the collar of Guy’s jacket and yanks him upward by the neck, and then he fastens his mouth over Guy’s and _bites_ , and the flash of pain is so intense he cries out. The sound is muffled against Hood’s lips and teeth as blood pours into his mouth, and he swallows reflexively. 

One of Hood’s knees shoves itself roughly between his legs, and he grunts, but he digs his heels into the ground and grinds up into it. The leather of his breeches might as well have been chainmail for all that he can feel through them. Changing tack, he catches Locksley’s tongue between his teeth and bites back. The pained groan he elicits is animal and raw and makes him shudder. He tastes blood again, and he doesn’t know if it’s his own or Hood’s, but it’s never really mattered. Nimble hands are on the buckles of his tunic, undoing them with blinding speed, and then his shirt is ripped open and Hood’s long fingers wrap around his throat while his other hand unbuckles his sword belt. 

Locksley’s breath is hissing through his teeth, loud and unsteady, his eyes glazed over and only half there. It makes a little frisson of fear skitter down Guy’s spine. He’s never felt anything more acutely than he can feel this, and he arches off the forest floor when Hood’s hand moves to the laces of his breeches. The brush of chilled skin against his aching cock makes him jerk against his restraints as though he were a puppet on a string. 

_“Fuck_ , Locksley,” he growls through his teeth, and Hood’s eyes snap to his face, so wide he can see the whites almost all the way around. He looks wild, feral. Guy presses his hips against his hand, watches in horrified fascination as those fingers slowly, inevitably, wrap around his cock. 

Eyes squeezing shut, he throws his head back against the ground, wincing when his bruised skull throbs. Over him, hunched low like a beast, Hood pants. His hand is cold, but it’s warming up, as he cradles Guy’s cock in his palm, traces the shape of it. He’s not looking at Guy’s face anymore; he’s staring at his hand, at Guy’s cock, rock hard and flushed and jutting toward his stomach. 

His thumb trails over the head and Guy’s thighs spasm uncontrollably. The way Locksley’s thumb slides over the skin is slick and easy, and he knows Hood is smearing precome over his cock, and the thought is so filthy he cannot breathe, he feels as though his throat is closing up. He can feel every little callous on Hood’s hand. A little noise shudders out of his mouth, his hands curled into useless fists at his side. “Hood,” he croaks, arching pathetically. 

“Shut up, Gisborne.” Locksley’s voice is low and quivers like a bowstring. His grip tightens, and then he begins to pump his hand up and down, stealing the breath from Guy’s lungs and making him shudder. 

“You disgust me,” Hood is saying, but he’s still staring at the way Guy’s cock fits in his hand. “You’re a murderer, and a coward, and you deserve death.” Guy moans wordlessly. His thighs are shaking, and his cock is leaking freely. Hood’s grip slides smoothly over the head of his cock, smearing the slick towards the root, his archer’s calluses barely noticeable anymore. Guy allows his head to fall back and his eyes to close, his breath coming shallow and quick through his mouth. He’s so close --

Hood’s hand stills on his cock. Something cold presses against his Adam’s apple. There is a knife at his throat. 

When he opens his eyes, Hood’s face is inches away from his own. Hood is flushed, his pupils wide and black against the rims of his irises. He’s shaking. In his left hand, he’s clutching Guy’s dagger so tightly his knuckles turn white, but his right hand has not moved. The blade of the dagger scrapes against Guy’s throat as he swallows, and his cock twitches eagerly. It makes Hood’s eyes widen fractionally, and his breath stutters past his parted lips.

Guy makes no move to defend himself. He can’t. His arms are pinned. 

“Do it,” he whispers, eyes boring into Locksley’s. The tremor in Hood’s hands grows stronger. 

The dagger is sharp. Guy makes sure of that. He barely feels any pain at all as the blade nicks him, and the warmth of his own blood trickles down his neck, but it’s still enough. His hips twitch, his cock pressing into Hood’s hand, and the sharp edge of orgasm slices him open. Eyes closed and lips parted, he shakes and shudders apart, hips jerking desperately into Locksley’s palm. He barely registers it when the dagger disappears and Locksley mumbles something, and then Locksley’s mouth is on his throat, all teeth, and he’s jerking him off quick and rough, making Guy come so hard he sees sparks behind his eyelids. 

With a rustle of clothing and a rush of cool air, Locksley rolls off him, the loss of his weight almost surprising after so long. Guy remains where he is, too exhausted to move, the world spinning slightly. Comfortable blackness rises up to enfold him.

When he wakes, there is silence. He opens his eyes with a groan, squinting against the merciless winter sun. He's bloody freezing. The blood on his neck has crusted over stiffly, tugging unpleasantly whenever he turns his head. A similarly regrettable situation prevails over much of his abdomen. Trust Locksley not to have the decency, he thinks, before icy realisation runs down his spine. _Where_ \--?

His head whips around, searching frantically for Locksley, but the clearing is empty. Not a sound can be heard but the wind in the leaves and the song of the birds. Then his gaze falls on something silver near his right hand.

Hood left him the dagger. 

With a groan, he lets his head fall back once more in exasperation, ignoring the dull pain. He permits himself a moment to utter a few choice words. Then he fumbles the dagger into his hand and begins the slow and awkward process of digging the arrowhead free from the soil.


End file.
